The Passion of Illidan Stormrage
by Bryon Nightshade
Summary: As his domain crumbles around him, Illidan finds a moment to pause and reflect. Mood piece.


Dry, unnatural lightning split the soot-blackened skies of Shadowmoon Valley. Infernals streaked across the sky like so many comets, dropping like fiery rain into the ongoing battles across the valley. The war engines of the Burning Legion and the puppets of the naaru pounded on the gates of the despoiled Temple of Karabor. And inside the temple, the harsh clanging of combat, the battle cries, the sibilance of spells, and the death-cries of dozens resonated.

Yet here, atop the Temple summit, Illidan found he was able to tune it all out. No sound seemed to reach here, or if it did, it was all the sound combined into a soft blur of white noise. Doubtlessly the fallen priests of Karabor had designed it that way, as a meditation aid perhaps. Or, more likely, to allow them to pursue their fruitless attempts to commune with the naaru.

Here, he could reflect.

Most people would say that such a spot would be the place to try and find inner peace. Illidan found that it merely left him alone with his hatred.

Not that he minded hatred. For him, being alone with his hatred was rather like finding inner peace. After all these years, it was impossible to imagine having nothing to hate. It served as a spur. It was the whip he used to drive himself on. Even if he'd been able to exorcise his lust for power, sheer spite would have pushed him relentlessly forward. Blindly forward. Recklessly forward.

His list of grievances was long and distinguished. It read like a who's who of Azeroth's mighty. But what made Illidan's hatred so consuming wasn't the length of the list, but the intensity with which he hated every person on it, and the magnitude of the wrongs done to him.

Whose place was it to judge him, anyway? For millennia, the driving force behind his actions had been the good of his people. Yes, he gained power in the process, but he *had* to have power to push the more important agenda forward. It was his right! No, more than that. It was his *duty* to gain power so that he could safeguard his people. And how could anyone hold that against him?

Yet they did.

His every action was twisted, every motive skewed, every gesture misunderstood by his accusers. "The betrayer", they called him. But who was more the betrayed? Illidan! Who had slain more demons than he had during the War of the Ancients? Who had saved Azeroth's font of magic when it was at risk of destruction? Who had annihilated Tichondrius and saved his people's precious forests? Who was the only person to truly appreciate the threat of the Lich King, and the things that had to be done to destroy him? Who had fought the Scourge and single-handedly saved a huge contingent of night elves from certain undeath? Who had brought salvation to the blood elves and the Broken when they had no one else to turn to? And who had come within a blade swing of destroying the Lich King a second time, only to be let down by his supposed allies?

But no, none of that mattered. Why? Because he hadn't done it "the right way"? Ungrateful wretches! All the good he had done and they judged him for his methods? How dare they!

How he despised the leaders of his people, mewling and whining as the world crashed down around them. And Illidan, their mightiest champion, their beacon against the dark, was reviled because he was different.

Jealousy. Fear. Those swine betrayed him because they didn't have the imagination or the will to contemplate the sacrifices he'd made. And they called him the traitor! If not for his intervention, all of them would have had their souls dismembered by the Legion. And still they saw him as the villain!

And Malfurion was the worst of them all.

Precious "Shan'do" Stormrage! Illidan's hatred of him, alone, was enough to consume Outland. That brother of his… always the perfect one, the leader, the idol. Even Cenarius had favored him, and why? Because Illidan had a different route to power? Brother, seen as the savior of the night elves, when it was his battle with Azshara that nearly destroyed the whole world! Holier-than-thou brother, who never thought twice about punishing Illidan for being different, as if he had grounds to be righteous. Next to brother, Illidan was treated like the unwanted bastard.

So smooth, so eloquent, so adept at wordcraft, brother. Him and his pretensions that the druidistic magics he espoused were of a different cloth from Illidan's arcane powers. Magic was magic! But when brother spoke, one became good and one became bad. So Illidan, by definition, was bad.

Made a pariah.

Made an example.

Brother, who never could have defeated Illidan one-on-one, cloaked his words in righteousness. And so he gained the loyalty of those he'd nearly blown up. To cement that loyalty, he turned on his brother, for what greater sacrifice could someone make? Why, that was proof of Malfurion's sanctity!

So Illidan was vilified.

Punished for no crime.

Made the whipping boy.

And the people went along with it, stupid sheep following the shepherd with the prettier crook. He became the atonement for the night elves' sins, the proof of their repentance. They forgave themselves for their crimes by offering up Illidan as their sacrifice. Their guilty consciences were bugging them, for they were all complicit in the War of the Ancients… but if they were able to blame it all on Illidan, they would feel better.

So that's what they did.

And it was all brother's idea.

Ten thousand years of imprisonment passed. Down there beneath the earth, unable to see, barely able to hear or feel, trapped in the deep, dank dark. It would have been so easy to go mad, so refreshing and relaxing to give in to insanity. But Illidan Stormrage was destined for more than that. He would find redemption or die trying.

He trained. Day in and day out, he honed his skills. Sharpened his demonsight. Practiced. Where there could have been idleness, he carried on. The most brutal training regimen ever devised, specifically to destroy the enemies he knew would return. Those demons would fall by his blades, in the end. And so, when his brother's weak and inadequate approach failed, Illidan would be there to save the day.

How had it gone so wrong?

Brother again! Brother, always there to slander and blame! Malfurion had not even a word of congratulations or gratitude, after all Illidan's contribution to the Legion's defeat. He cast him out as a pariah again.

The hatred emanated from Illidan now. For a being as powerful as he was, emotions could take a physical form. Illidan's wrath manifested as black heat cloaking his body, and it burned ever hotter as he remembered.

Brother was judging him again! Branding him unworthy, just because his path was different! The power that had warped his appearance made him scary, but did it make him villainous? How could they believe he'd done it for his own sake? Power was needed to stop the Legion, and Illidan's was the way to get it! It would have been treasonous, suicidal even, to turn it down! And when it was all over and that power was all that stood between them and utter destruction, that was the moment they turned on him.

Because brother said so.

When brother said so, even Tyrande listened.

Tyrande…

Illidan's wrath cooled. She was the only memory he possessed that he treasured. If he had eyes, he'd cry. Tyrande, lost forever! Blinded and misled by brother, slave to her love for him! Oh, Tyrande, why did you choose him? How could you? I was here for you, I gave everything for you, I would let the whole world burn in demonfire but I would burn it all myself before I let it touch you…

Even she couldn't grasp what he'd done. She came closer than anyone, perhaps; she'd rescued him, given him chances when no one else would. But how could she go against brother?

Tyrande, Tyrande, if only you had loved me! Our love would have remade the world!

But it was not to be. And all Illidan could do was curse the fates that had set the eyes of her heart just a few feet to the left.

Injustice piled upon injustice. Nothing was left to him. No reward, no pleasure, not even a moment of gratitude. Not a kind word or a token of thanks.

Who had betrayed whom?

They had told him so often that he was a traitor he had started to believe their words. So he divorced himself from his people, renounced them forever, and struck for Outland to establish a new home. He would set his will for his own good for once!

And what reward had he gotten for that?

Illidan felt them approach. Mortals. Dozens of them, maybe. The champions of the mortal races had such hate for him, they couldn't leave him alone.

Illidan's anger flared like a nova. He'd abandoned Azeroth, left it once and for all. He was content to let the mortals of his old home fend for themselves against the Legion. He would commit no more so-called crimes against that world. But now that he'd quit it for good, they came looking for him?

How dare they!

This was the most spiteful act yet. This time he'd done nothing, and now they were hunting him. And for what? For building a kingdom on another world? Because the naaru told them to? Just because he was there and had power?

No.

They would burn for this, this most serious transgression.

He gripped the Skull of Gul'dan, the object that symbolized both his good intentions and his consequent damnation. By its power, all the skills that had been honed to destroy demons would devour these mortals instead. They would know regret.

Very briefly.

Fine then, mortals. You make me out to be the selfish, power-hungry type? In that case, I *will* have power! I'll have it all. Outland will be my citadel, my strength. That's what he had decided.

If they hated him no matter what, he'd give them something to hate.

He gave the gathering mortals scant notice, but stirred when he sensed a particular presence. Akama! The treasonous worm!

Even now the betrayals rolled in. First Akama, the coward, the bleeding heart. Then Kael'thas, a crazed but weak creature who fancied himself clever even as he was transparent. Only Lady Vashj had ever been loyal to Illidan, and she'd been the first to die.

Listen to Akama prattle on about freedom. Illidan rose, sneering. Akama's loyalty had always been to the master with the longest whip. He refused to acknowledge it, though. Listen to his conceit. If Illidan were so terrible, would he have even allowed Akama to live?

Ironic, then. Illidan ruled Outland by the power of the naga, the blood elves, the fel orcs, the Broken, and the demons. They were a collection of beings united only by their love of power and their belief that Illidan could get it for them. And when it came down to it, only the demons had been true to him.

He had the most in common with the demons, perhaps… did that make him one of them?

The mortals clearly had decided. Perhaps, for once, they were right.

There was nothing for it, then, but to play the part with all his might.

They had no idea what was coming for them. They'd driven him too far. No more would he submit to their judgment. He would raise his voice—and his blades—in answer.

And, to face that, they were not prepared.


End file.
